


Weaver's Apprentice, The

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2003-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ring War didn't just affect its heroes...it touched the lives of all the people of Middle Earth.  A teenage girl of Minas Tirith watches the coming Darkness with fear, becomes caught up in the war itself, and finally finds her own happiness in the midst of Gondor's victory. Written for the "Anything, but ordinary!" Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

I have always been an early riser. At sixteen, I remember getting out of bed every day, just as the first faint rays of light appeared over Mindolluin, and going out into the streets of the City to get the day's water. I clearly remember the coolness of the stone doorpost as I rested my cheek against it, trying to get a moment of comfort before I lifted the wooden yoke to my neck. Just like every other maid in the city, I had to fetch water every morning. However, I carried a lighter load than most, because our small household consisted of only the Weaver and myself.

Since the age of eight, I had been apprenticed to the Weaver, and I had lived in her house in the third circle of Minas Tirith. My real parents were farmers, country people—I don't remember from where, but I think we came from north of the city. There were happy years, years of plenty, when the crop was good and our tables were laden—but then the Dark Years came. My father had never neglected the offering of the first fruits to Illuvatar, but drought and blight struck his crops nonetheless. Finally, cursing his fate and the land that had betrayed him, Father led us all from the farm to the city.

I barely remember coming to the Weaver's house for the first time. I had little comprehension of what was happening, even as my parents begged the Weaver to take me on as apprentice. "See her hands," my mother pleaded, desperation in her voice. "Long fingers, skilled ones. She will work hard for you."

The Weaver wrinkled her sharp nose as if the smell of dung still clung to us. "I do not give gold for apprentices, and especially not for farmers' brats." I hugged close to my father at hearing that. I might not have understood what was happening, but I did understand that this old woman did not like me.

"Enough of your stubborn pride," my father said sharply. "Our family is one of landowners, not hired pig herders. And every one in the city knows you are without husband or child. You need our daughter."

Finally, the deal was closed, I suppose. My final memory of my mother was of her leaning close to me, telling me that I must be a good girl and not cry, before she kissed me and turned away with tears in her eyes. My father had his back turned to me the whole time. Before I knew what was happening, they walked out of the house, and I was left alone with the Weaver.

For eight years I lived this way, without mother or father or anything to call my own. I learned to hold back my tears, to be cold and strong as the stones of the city, my new home. Crying brought only beatings, so I often lay awake at nights in my little attic room with a sharp pain in my heart. Curled up on my pallet, I would stare at the moon and stars through the gaping holes of the roof tiles. I would hope with the faith of my childish heart that perhaps my parents were coming back for me tomorrow. As I grew older, I realized how silly my dreams were, but I never cried. A child who cannot cry is a terrible thing; yet I did not shed a tear from the time I was eight to the time...but I will come to that later. That is also part of my story.

At any rate, on my way to the well that day, I saw many of the people I knew. Every circle of the city had its own well, fed from the waters of the mountains. The pipes, which ran to the city from the deep mountain springs, had been laid centuries ago, in the days of the Kings. Carrying water was women's work, so the well was the gathering place of women and the best place to hear all the news of the neighborhood. The housewives and maids relished the rare chance to talk to one another, and if I ever heard gossip at the well, I could be sure it was at least mostly true.

As I dipped my stout oaken bucket into the stone trough, a familiar voice called my name. "Aelin! Aelin, foolish girl, haven't you heard?" It was my friend Lindë, a potter's apprentice who lived two doors from us. She bounded up to me, her unruly hair already escaping its braid, and grinned as she bent to fill her own bucket.

"What was I supposed to have heard, Lindë?" I asked, smiling at her. Round-cheeked Lindë always had some interesting bit of news to share, and she loved telling a new rumor almost as much as she loved hearing one. Physically, she and I were as different as night and day. My broomstick figure made hers seem even rounder, and where her hair was fair, mine was straight and dark. We might have seemed an unlikely pair, but as apprentices, we shared many of the same trials, and she was as close as I had ever come to having a real friend.

"Soldiers," the potter's apprentice simpered at me, sloshing water on my feet. I frowned at her; my shoes were light and hardly protected my feet from the damp. She misinterpreted my frown as a quizzical look and elaborated. "Many companies are coming into the city—and there isn't room for all of them in the barracks. They are going to quarter here in the third circle. In _our_ houses."

"Soldiers? Here?" I felt slightly queasy at the thought. I'd walked enough in the streets of the city to know what soldiers could be like, and they were hardly the gallants of Lindë's daydreams. "You know, Lindë, that might _not_ be a good thing."

She raised a blonde brow at me and grinned even wider. "How so? Handsome soldiers in our houses...handsome soldiers who'll carry us off to the country...how is that a bad thing?"

"Have you thought about why they're in the city? The Darkness is coming and everyone knows it," I pointed out. "The army has not moved so many men since the Weaver was a lass, and that's nearly an age of the Elves. You know how old Mistress is."

The other girl smiled weakly at my joke before looking fearfully towards the strange gloom in the east. "I am not so stupid, Aelin," she whispered. "I'm frightened too. This is my way of keeping hope alive. You understand."

"I do understand." I took her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Keep well, Lindë, and we will meet again tomorrow." We exchanged a sympathetic look before she headed in the direction of the Potter's house, buckets sloshing the whole time.

For once, Lindë wasn't exaggerating. As I returned to the Weaver's house, I was so lost in thought that I nearly collided with a strange man standing in the doorway. I took a few hasty steps back and glanced furtively at his clothing before setting the water buckets in the corner. A Captain of soldiers, he looked to be...and he was having a rather heated discussion with the Weaver.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ring War didn't just affect its heroes...it touched the lives of all the people of Middle Earth. A teenage girl of Minas Tirith watches the coming Darkness with fear, becomes caught up in the war itself, and finally finds her own happiness in the midst of Gondor's victory. Written for the "Anything, but ordinary!" Challenge.

Eight years in the Weaver's household had taught me to keep my ears open and my movements quiet, and as I laid the table for breakfast, I managed to pick up most of the Captain's conversation. "There is no more room in the barracks," I heard him say to the Weaver. "Your neighbors are doing their part to help in this, lady, and you have a larger house than most."

Although my back was turned, I could picture the Weaver's disapproving scowls as she spoke sharply to the Captain. "My neighbors are also men. I ask you, how can soldiers lodge in a house with a lone woman and her apprentice? How can my Aelin keep her virtue with a band of young rowdies coming in drunk at all hours? I will not have it!" I felt great relief at hearing the Weaver use me as an excuse, but I knew she wasn't doing it out of the kindness of her heart. Her ability to make a prosperous marriage for me was directly linked to my reputation. No man would give a rich dowry for a woman known to be, let us say, somewhat less than pure. It wasn't only that the Weaver was greedy; every father or master in Gondor had a like interest in making a good marriage for the young girls dependent on him, and the Weaver was no different.

The Captain sighed heavily, his frustration evident, but he still spoke to the Weaver with as much patience and respect as if he were addressing his own mother. "I assure you, Madam, that my men will honor your house as if it were their own. They are country men, good men in their own way. Most are young. Many have just come from behind the plow. I give you my word that they will do you and your apprentice no harm."

I saw the familiar spark of greed glittering in the Weaver's eye. "If there is compensation involved..." At that moment, she must have glimpsed me trying to eavesdrop, for she whirled around and began to shout at me.

"Foolish girl! Don't stand about like a lazy wench, spying on your betters! You remember what I told you to do last night. To the weaving room with you, my girl." She would have chased me out of the room, had I not been prudent and left as fast as my feet would take me.

The Weaver often found fault with me, but there was only one thing in which she had never been able to fault me. She had never had to force me to the loom; I had a natural love for the craft. There were three great looms in the weaving room; I sat down at the smallest of the three and began to ply my shuttle, enjoying the feel of the soft wool in my fingers. I was already familiar with this loom, having woven several simple linen cloths on it in the past two years. This was my first attempt at working fine wool, and I hoped to have the length finished by Yuletide. The holidays were only a month away, but I was confident I would have it done by then.

I became so engrossed in my work that I did not notice the Weaver standing over me, until she coughed loudly. The old woman had always coughed, more or less, but of late her coughs had become disturbingly deep and hollow, and I had found flecks of pink on her handkerchiefs. At any rate, she might have been ill, but that made her no less exacting when it came to my work. She examined my cloth closely, then coughed again. "It will do, child," she said, more softly than was her wont. I knew then that I had earned her approval, for that comment was the closest the Weaver ever came to praising me.

I turned to face her, looking up into the flinty grey eyes. "What of your breakfast, mistress?" I asked, almost craftily. "Do you not wish me to prepare your porridge?"

The Weaver laughed, coming close to a coughing fit. "I see I have raised you well. Sly girl! I know what you want. You want to know what that Captain of Soldiers was all about. Well, my fine lass, you'll find out soon enough." With that cryptic remark, she stalked out of the weaving room, leaving me mystified and embarassed.

I had some idea of what the Captain wanted, but I wasn't entirely certain of it until I came home from some small errand to find our common room filled with men. They looked to be as the Captain had said, young farmers' sons, but I couldn't help fearing them. I had heard too many tales about what such men did when they found girls in dark alleys. I was too naive at the time to know that those horror stories were simply the Weaver's attempt to keep me away from boys who might get me into "trouble".

The Captain was addressing his men as I entered the house, and I couldn't help noticing the difference between him and the men he commanded. He was obviously of good breeding, a man of the city, and he gave orders as a matter of course, like a man used to being obeyed. His "soldiers", on the other hand, were little more than boys. My stomach turned with fear when I noticed that most of them were not much older than I. Had it really come to this? Was the Shadow grown so great that Gondor must call on such inexperienced youths? I quietly went to my little stool at the hearth and busied myself with some sewing, listening to what the Captain had to say.

"Listen, and listen well! We are guests in this house, and guests of this woman and her apprentice. Respect this house as if it were your own mother's. Treat the girl as though she were your sister." A few of the soldiers glanced at me with curiosity; I blushed and bent closer to my sewing. "If I hear a single word of complaint from either of them about any of you—well, I need only tell you that the punishment will be most severe."

"You are in the City now, and you shall conduct yourselves as men of the City. There will be no drunkenness and no fighting in the house. We will spend the better part of our days training, so you will have little time for mischief. I hope to make you into true men and good soldiers before winter is up. Gondor will have need of your strength ere long. See that you do not fail your native land!"

The Captain had more to say to his men, I think, but I never got to hear it. At that moment, the Weaver took me by the arm and dragged me into the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ring War didn't just affect its heroes...it touched the lives of all the people of Middle Earth. A teenage girl of Minas Tirith watches the coming Darkness with fear, becomes caught up in the war itself, and finally finds her own happiness in the midst of Gondor's victory. Written for the "Anything, but ordinary!" Challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long time no update...my muse went into exile for months on end! It also didn't help that I was in the process of finishing my senior year of high school. I'm trying to finish this ASAP before I have to go off to college, so hopefully updates will be more frequent from now on.

Author's Note: Sorry about the long time no update...my muse went into exile for months on end! It also didn't help that I was in the process of finishing my senior year of high school. I'm trying to finish this ASAP before I have to go off to college, so hopefully updates will be more frequent from now on.

 

As the weeks passed, the Weaver and I grew more and more accustomed to having the soldiers under our roof. I led a circumscribed existence now, spending most of my days in the weaving room and most of my nights in the kitchen. The Weaver would not permit me to sit in the common room and socialize with the men; as soon as the dishes were washed and the table cleaned, I had to retreat to my little garret.

However, the Weaver couldn't prevent me from hearing the men's talk as I served at table. I soon came to know them all: thin Arlos, with his dreams of being a scholar; Ward, older than the other men and wiser, who kept them all in line when the Captain was not around to do it; merry Gardel, round-faced and laughing, who loved a bawdy story. Even though I was not allowed to speak with or even  
smile at them, I felt as if I knew them all.

However, I have to confess, of all the men who lodged in our house, I had one especial favorite. His name—I smile just to speak it—was Caran. He was tall, with a mop of red-gold hair, a face speckled by the sun, and strong teeth, which he always showed me in a courteous smile.

Even now, I am not certain why I was attracted to him. Perhaps it was his ready laugh, or the way he ate neatly, taking care not to slosh soup or drip grease on his tunic. But do you know, I think it was the way he spoke to me that made me like him most. No morning passed where he did not greet me with a kind "Good morrow," and he never left the supper table without saying, "Thank you, lady." The Powers know I was no lady, and never will be, but I was flattered nonetheless. Yes, it must have been his silver tongue that made me like him most.

One morning—it must have been about a week before Yuletide, for I remember my teeth chattering with the cold—Caran met me at the door as I went to fetch the water. I nodded at him before I turned to lift the heavy wooden yoke which held my water buckets. The very next second, I was startled nearly out of my wits to feel it beiing lifted off my shoulders! I spun around to find that Caran had removed it with his own strong hands. He grinned at me as mischieviously as a boy playing a prank, and before I could demand the buckets back, he was out the door and walking briskly down the cobbled street. What could I do? I followed him.

To my young, innocent mind, Caran seemed prodigiously strong. Why, he walked along whistling as if the heavy oaken buckets were hardly a burden at all! Just thinking about their leaden weight made my shoulders burn. I could have called his name, tried to make him give them back…but something in me wanted to see what he would do. I could not recall that he had ever been to the well we used, but he seemed to know the way quite well. It wasn’t until we reached it that he turned around to face me, the same crafty grin on his face.

“Lady, will you consent to let me fetch this water for you?” he asked, as gallantly as a knight asking a princess for her favor.

I stared dumbfounded at him for a few moments, then found my tongue. “What in the name of the One are you trying to do? This is my chore. You’ve no need to do this.”

“Ah, and are you so fond of carrying these two heavy buckets that you won’t let me do it, lady?” He raised his eyebrows at me, and something in his expression—I just had to smile back.

“If you are to fetch my water for me, you must give me my proper name.” I sat down on the tiled edge of the trough, and without asking, Caran sat beside me. It was impudent of him, but I had to admit, I liked it. I could feel the warmth of his body even through my thick woolen cloak. It was a most disconcerting sensation, and, I was startled to find, a most enjoyable one.

“And what fair name would that be?” The eyebrows again. How I did like his smile!

“Aelin.”

“Ahhhhh. Aelin.” He closed his eyes as if savoring the sound of my name. “Beautiful.” He jumped up and swept me a low bow. “And I, fair one, am Caran. And I will carry your water for you every day after this.” Dipping the buckets into the trough, he hooked them to the yoke, and we started for home, walking side by side.

 

In this way, Caran and I struck up a friendship. He was careful enough never to let the Weaver see him talking to me, but he often lingered by my side as I did some tedious chore, and we could make conversation like that. I told him what I remembered of my mother and father, and how I had been sold to the Weaver in a blighted season. In turn, he told me of his family, farmers from Lebennin-between-the-rivers. He told me also of his wandering feet, his thirst for adventure and how it had led him to enlist in the army. “Three years of drilling and marching, and it’s come to this finally,” he said, eyes dreamy with the promise of battle. “When spring comes, we will face the Enemy at last.”

I shuddered as I drew my needle through the sheet I was hemming. “Is that such a great thing, Caran? To know that you might die, and leave this world behind you so young?”

“I only wish that I may die a true man’s death.” He smiled at me, taking my hand and kissing it. “Though it would be painful to leave behind one so fair to mourn me.”

I blushed and snatched my hand away. “Is that all I am to you, one to be left behind?” I retorted. “You’d best get away, for I hear the Weaver’s footsteps.” With a disappointed look, he fled, leaving me to explain to the Weaver just why my stitches were all of different size.

I think the Captain suspected somewhat of our secret walks and talks, for he sometimes looked at me oddly, and once I spied him speaking to Caran in a low, serious voice. However, he said nothing to the Weaver of it, for which I was deeply glad. Perhaps it was just that the Captain did not wish to bother the Weaver, for she grew more and more ill as the winter grew colder. She spent more days in her bed than at the loom, and I had to nurse her as well as keep house for the soldiers. It was an exhausting few months, I can tell you that.

Yuletide that year was not the most cheerful of occasions. Usually, even for us common folk, it’s a time to give gifts, make merry, and enjoy what we have. However, the merriment in the City that year was subdued, almost frightened. No one spoke of it much, but I think that everyone knew that war was coming, a war with the Enemy, one so huge it would decide all our fates. None would be left unscathed.

Only the Weaver seemed oblivious to it all. She took to her bed two weeks before Yule, and I had a feeling even then that she wouldn’t leave it. She complained heartily of her aches and pains, my incompetence as a nurse, and the weaving she had yet to finish. I worked on the weaving as often as I could, but I still could not do the work of two. Several neighbor women came in from time to time and helped me cook and clean. I was profoundly grateful for this, as our coins were few and I could not have afforded to hire another servant. The responsibility of the house was passing into my hands, and I hardly felt ready for it.  



End file.
